


Shell Game

by Cyphomandra



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyphomandra/pseuds/Cyphomandra
Summary: Desperate times prompt desperate actions.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tielan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/gifts).



> Thanks as always are due to my betas, China Shop and Dashi!

A stray beam of light bounced off the walls of the reservoir control room as the figure at the tank access cover lifted his lamp up to get a better look. Control of the water supply of Jedha City had been at the top of the Empire's list of priorities, after the temple and space port; blaster bolt scars on the walls proved they'd met with resistance, although the Imperial seals on all the equipment indicated t it hadn't been enough. The aquifer that was the city's lifeblood was now locked down tight, in line with standard protocols for subduing rebellion in desert climates.

The power grid was also in Imperial hands, but earlier that day a rogue tech had taken out an environmental generator, and the lighting to this sector was still out. The sole air pump running in the control room was struggling to deal with the heat, and the man working swiftly to disable the remaining locks paused occasionally to wipe sweat from his forehead, his patched and dirty leathers more for protection than for comfort. His name was Baze Malbus, and he had no business being anywhere in the facility; or, at least, no business of any use to the Empire.

The last fastening freed, he set his hands to the cover and twisted. Baze was a big man, solidly built, but the hatch was nearly half his height and ten centimetres thick, and for a moment it didn't budge. Then it gave with a reluctant hiss and he began to turn it around, picking up more momentum with each spin.

It was moving much faster by the time it came free. Baze was at an awkward angle when it did so -- he staggered, and for a moment held the full weight of it secure; then the free edge began to tip, inexorable, and Baze let go and jumped back. It hit the ground with a heavy clang that reverberated off the walls and down the corridor outside.

Baze muttered a curse and turned back towards the revealed control panel, one hand retrieving a flat black box from his jacket front. With the other he tapped a sequence of numbers into the panel, and, one by one, the red lights blinked to green. A hatch slid open to reveal a sample port. Anything added here would go straight into the main reservoir.

A noise in the distance. Footsteps, more than one person, and moving in step; people alerted to his presence by the disturbance. Baze's shoulders hunched as he flipped open the lid. A pair of thin gloves lay inside, and he put them on, fingers moving with controlled urgency. Underneath was a single stoppered vial full of blue liquid, braced with shock-absorbent foam. He dislodged it carefully and then moved to hold it over the sampler port, keeping it at arms' length as he uncapped it. For a moment he paused.

"Hey. Get away from there!" Two stormtroopers pushed into the room. As they did the man tipped the vial's contents into the port and pushed it shut before stepping back to comply with the order, raising his hands up as if to indicate his harmlessness, his body silhouetted against the faint light of the console. There was a distant hum of machinery as the port’s contents were taken up and the preprogrammed mixing cycle activated.

"Turn around."

Baze did. Both troopers had their weapons and torch beams trained on him. At a signal, the smaller trooper, who wore the green tags of an environmental technician, came forward and did a rough pat down.

"No weapons," she reported. "No authorisations or ID." She yanked his arms down and cuffed them behind his back.

"Another rebel." The stormtroooper sounded unsurprised. "You people are like cockroaches."

Baze didn't respond.

The tech was searching their immediate surroundings. "Here," she said, and held up the discarded vial, which she’d wrapped in a protective sheet of transparent flimplast..

"Call it in," the first trooper said. "Sabotage."

"No need," said another voice from the doorway as the trooper at the controls lifted her hand to her comm link. An officer with captain’s insignia swept into the room, half-cloak over one shoulder and weapon holstered. “Let me see that.” He stopped level with the trooper whose weapon was trained on Baze and held out a hand, his facemask glinting in the torch light.

The tech skirted the field of fire to hand it to him. The captain glanced at the few drops left at the bottom. 

“We’ll have this analysed, of course.” He tucked it away in an inner pocket. “But I’ve always preferred field tests.”

“Give it to me, then,” Baze said unexpectedly, his voice deep and rasping. "I'll drink it." 

The trooper guarding him twitched when he spoke, but the barrel of his blaster rifle didn’t move. The tech retraced her steps to the control panel to consult the readouts.

“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” The captain regarded Baze. “You might be particularly resistant. And I do have other places to be. If this were – sennari, for example – I would prefer to be elsewhere before you started convulsing and foaming at the mouth.”

The poison he named was both notorious and exquisitely potent. The population of a whole space station had been wiped out after a part-time smuggler with a lack of appreciation of the finer details of water reclamation technology had panicked and dumped less than a teaspoon of the poison into a public fountain. 

"You think I care about your people?" Baze said. "We've had no fresh water for five days."

"File a complaint through the proper channels." The captain angled his head towards the trooper at the displays. "Anything?"

"It's in the main reserve." She checked another readout. "I can run a purification cycle. I'll have to check with our techs about how to dispose of the contaminated water, but it should only be twenty four hours or so before fresh water will start reaccumulating."

"Oh, don't worry about disposal," the captain said. "Open the pipes to the city."

"No." It was a half-choked whisper. "No!" Baze lunged forward with a howl. The trooper at the panel grabbed at him, and the guarding trooper's finger tightened on the trigger.

The captain tapped his rifle barrel with one protective gloved finger. "Don't make it too easy," he advised. The trooper nodded, and moved forward. Within a few minutes Baze was under control, his head hanging down in dejection, hair in his face.

"Well?" 

"Pipes open, sir." The female trooper entered a final command, deactivating the last of the alarms set to prevent just such an action. 

"Monster," Baze muttered.

"You asked for water. I delivered it." The captain's tone was coolly impartial. "Whatever else is there is your responsibility." 

Baze hung his head. The captain waved the troopers away with a few brief commands, and then prodded Baze with his own weapon. "March."

Baze plodded heavily in front of him out of the control room and down the access corridor. When they came to an intersection the captain ordered him to turn. A few more turns, and they were in a back corridor. Baze's steps were no longer as heavy.

"We're off surveillance," the captain said. Baze halted.

"Good," he said with finality. "Because if I have to do any more acting I may strain something."

Chirrut lifted his facemask and helm free and scratched at his scalp. "You were very good," he said soothingly. "Apart from the bit where you called me a monster. I do have feelings."

"Monster," Baze said firmly. "If you had a moustache you would have twirled it."

Chirrut had his head to one side as if listening, a posture Baze recognized: he was using the Force. "Surveillance?" Baze asked. The power cuts in this area should have gotten all the cameras, but it was always possible something had changed.

Chirrut shook his head. "No. The imminent arrival of our distraction."

He unclasped his chest plate and let it drop. In the dim light it was still possible to make out a freshblaster bolt scar in the centre of the back panel, the side he'd taken pains to keep away from the troopers earlier. Their plan had been a hasty improvisation after finding out Gerrera’s forces planned to drop a proton torpedo on the water station the next morning (“At best it destroys everything, and we don’t get any water,” Baze had said, exasperated, “and at worst it doesn’t work, and we don’t get any water. Tell me which side he’s on again?”) and earlier attempts to get the water codes had failed. 

"You did get the cuff release." Baze jerked his shoulders.

Chirrut hissed through his teeth. "I knew there was -" Then, as Baze radiated palpable fury, "Yes. Turn around."

Baze rolled his eyes and complied.

"I can tell when you do that." Chirrut dug out the keys he'd pick-pocketed deftly from the trooper when he’d collected the vial, and felt for the lock.

"That's why I do it." The cuffs fell loose. Baze shook out his hands. Chirrut applied himself to removing the rest of his stolen trooper's gear. 

Baze was restless. "It's only another week's water at the most," he said abruptly. "If we're careful."

Chirrut felt for his bootstraps. "One week more is one week more." 

Baze snorted. "Have faith, right?"

"I do." 

On the far side of the wall was the generator that had been sabotaged earlier, along with several detonators and the body of the captain who’d provided Chirrut’s disguise. One of their friends should be triggering the blast shortly, giving Baze and Chirrut an escape route and the Empire an assortment of neatly tied loose ends. There would be disappointment when the populace didn’t obligingly die off, but Baze could live with that.

Chirrut followed him back along the corridor to wait for the blast. Baze reached out for his hand, skin against skin. One week more. Together.

"Next time I'll be the target," Chirrut said. 

THE END.


End file.
